Our feet took us outside, to his waiting pickup truck, the bed full of painting supplies and surface preparation tools.
“I hadn’t planned to,” he said. “Until now.” Putting the paint in the truck, he handed me a scraper and a dust mask while he grabbed an arm load of other supplies. “Seems like an appropriate way to end the year.”
My shoes followed his, my eyes on his back. “A proper way to say good-bye, you mean?” He slowed, but I kept walking.
“Hawthorne—”
Pausing next to the house, I glanced back at him. “It’s a good way to say good-bye.” I smiled. “I’d love to go.”
His gaze searched mine, his eyes narrowing. “Really?”
“It’ll be a great farewell,” I emphasized.
“Hawthorne—”
“This house really won’t paint itself.”
I was still smiling, and he took his cue from me, his lips curling upward. “You’re a strange one,” he murmured. Placing his stuff on the ground, he looked up at the house, his gaze searching the exterior before falling back to me. “I didn’t expect you, you know.” His hands found his blue jean pockets. “I mean, I did and I didn’t. I noticed you watching my shoes this year, and it fascinated me. I’ll admit I tested it, moving my feet closer to see what you’d do. You never shied away, but you also never spoke.”
“Until Sylvia Plath,” I supplied.
He chuckled. “Damn poetry. You totally walked into that trap, you know.”
We both stared at the house.
“I didn’t expect you,” he repeated.
Something about his words made my pulse quicken. “I’m guessing no one’s ever told you that some moments don’t have to last forever.” I felt his gaze on me, but I didn’t look at him. “There’s a long road ahead of us in life, Heathcliff. This is just a moment.”
He snorted. “Heathcliff … I’m never going to live that name down.” He stepped closer but didn’t touch me. “What kind of moment are you looking for? I’m only asking because I’m worried I’m going to disappoint.”
“What …” My gaze moved over his face, his expression startling me, and I gasped. “You’re afraid.”
His eyes fell away from me. “Now look who’s being funny.”
“No,” I accused. “You are.” My arm shot out, my hand finding his arm. “You’re afraid I’m going to ask you to stay.”
His jaw tensed. “No, I’m afraid I’m going to feel like I have to.”
My arm dropped back to my side. “Do you want to know what made me look at your face?” I asked. “I finally really looked at you because you told me you wanted to leave this town, and you were honest about it. I didn’t look because I expected you to remain here. I looked because you weren’t afraid to tell me you were going. I’m not looking for a forever moment.”
He leaned forward, his face peering down into mine. “Then what—”
“I want to make love to you,” I blurted, my cheeks reddening.
Heathcliff froze, his lips parting as he stared. “Did you really just say that because I’m pretty sure you did, but I’m also pretty sure I might still be having the same vivid dream that woke me up this morning? Only maybe I didn’t wake up because I’m pretty sure I just heard you say—”
“Make love to me,” I insisted, swallowing hard.
I was being forward, and I knew it. Uncle Gregor’s illness was changing me. In some ways, it was an oddly good change. In others, I was simply confused, afraid that life would end before I even had a chance to live it. I felt desperate to do, feel, and see it all. It helped that Heathcliff’s words confirmed he thought about me the same way I did him when we weren’t together.
Heathcliff’s hand lifted, his fingers running through his hair, mussing it. “You really said it.” He studied me, his gaze searching mine. “That’s an awful big leap from marked shoes, poetry, hand holding, and dry humping against a pickup. And yeah, I know I’m being crude, but you do realize you’re asking to have sex with me?”
His hand found his hair again, and I found myself grinning. “I’m pretty sure that’s what I said.”
He laughed, amusement mixed with disbelief. “You’re like this really strange painting. One of those crazy abstract things where someone just threw paint at the canvas using every color known to man. Because there’s no way to pin down just one color, no way to pin you down. Stare at you too long and a man could lose his mind.”
Swallowing, I whispered, “Yet you keep coming back.”
“My mind’s already gone.”
I was lost in a stormy sea of words where nothing I said next would be right or wrong. It would just be. “I guess I need you right now.”
He ran his hand through his hair yet again, his gaze skirting the house before returning to mine.
I knew what he was thinking—my uncle, the cancer, the impending summer and fall—and I leaned forward. “If it was any other girl standing here in any other situation, would you stop and think about this?”
“No,” he answered honestly.
“Then don’t think.”